


It Was Always You

by whyyesitscar



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"People would laugh at me or roll their eyes if I told them that my relationship with Santana is based on knowledge, but it totally is. Santana is the best at knowing facts...Well, I'm the best at knowing Santana." Brittana, 3x08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Always You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Red String of Fate. Beginning lyrics taken from Ingrid Michaelson's "It Was Always You."

_" **i wait in the rain, but i don't complain**_  
 **_because i wait for you._ **  
**_and i don't feel the pain; you're like Novacain_ **  
**_and i got you."_ **

_“What’s that string for, Daddy?”_

_“This? It fell out of your mother’s pocket the first time we met.”_

_“Why do you still have it?”_

_“Well, some people say that everyone is born with an invisible red string tied around their little fingers, and the other end of the string is tied to their soulmate’s finger. And all they have to do is follow that string and find the other person.”_

_“But you said this was in Mommy’s pocket, not her hand.”_

_“I know. But, you see, I didn’t even know your mother when this happened. She was hurrying down the street and this ribbon fell out of her pocket. It looked like a really pretty ribbon and I didn’t think she would want to lose it, so I ran to pick it up. But the other end was still in her pocket and when I grabbed it, the whole thing started to unravel. She kept hurrying, getting farther and farther away, and I was still chasing this silly ribbon. I kept my head down and followed it until I turned a corner and there she was, standing and laughing at me. And that’s when I knew.”_

_“Knew what?”_

_“That she was my soulmate.”_

_“Oh. Daddy, what’s a soulmate?”_

_“It’s the person who knows you best and loves you most, the person who makes you laugh when you need it and sometimes cries with you, too. Your soulmate is the person you’re supposed to be with forever.”_

_“How do you know who that is?”_

_“You’ll find them eventually.”_

_“Yeah, but how will you **know**?”_

_“I can’t tell you that, button. Sometimes there are things you can’t explain. You just know them. Why do you always let your sister have the first cookie out of the oven?”_

_“I dunno, it just feels right.”_

_“Right. Soulmates are kind of like that.”_

_“Soulmates are like manners?”_

_“Yeah, kiddo. Soulmates are the best ‘Thank you’ you can ever get.”_

_“Oh. Okay.”_

/ 

People laugh at me a lot. It’s not always in a bad way; most of the time, I know they really think I’m funny, or sometimes they laugh because they just don’t know what else to do. It’s okay. I do that, too. If Santana isn’t around, I laugh a lot to fill silences. Once one person starts laughing, it’s easier for other people to laugh and then stuff stops being uncomfortable. It’s, like, the best medicine ever, and awkward social situations are the anthrax of high school, so they could probably use all the medicine we have. So I laugh.

But Santana is with me almost all of the time, so I don’t always have to laugh by myself. If she’s there, I just look to her. Santana always knows what to do. She told me once that knowing things is the most important part of life.

_(“You just have to know stuff, Brittany.”_

_“How much stuff?”_

_“All of it.”_

_“Oh. Why?”_

_“Because when you know things, you can use them. Then you don’t have to be afraid of giving the wrong answer or acting the wrong way. You won’t ever be wrong because you know all the facts.”)_

Santana always helps me study and she’s super good at it. And because of her, I do know a lot of things. I know a lot more things than people give me credit for, probably. But see, the problem is that these things all start to look the same. They might start out as science things or math things, but eventually they all blend together. Like when you watch the clouds, they start out as pirate ships and ducks and kittens riding sea horses. But then the sky pulls them apart and they just dissolve into white puffs.

Santana’s really smart. She knows a lot of somethings. And when I get confused, she helps me find the right something.

But I know a lot of someones. Give me five minutes with a complete stranger and I can probably figure out what their biggest problems are. See, Santana sees horses, but I know everyone has a little bit of unicorn inside. People are interesting to me because they aren’t just white puffs—people are always pirate ships and ducks and sometimes even dragons.

(Santana is a dragon, I think. Her horns are in all the wrong places, like on her back where they hurt people who are nice to her. Sometimes, when she’s with me, I find it where it should be—on her head, where it can guide her).

People would laugh at me or roll their eyes if I told them that my relationship with Santana is based on knowledge, but it totally is. Santana is the best at knowing facts, how to use them to manipulate people for her benefit.

Well, I’m the best at knowing Santana.

I try really hard to make her accept that as one of her facts—because it totally is—but I don’t think she always believes me.

/ 

_(“What do you think they do when they’re not chasing aliens?”_

_“I bet they’re totally doing it.”_

_“Come on, Sanny. Be serious.”_

_“I **am** being serious; have you seen the way Martha looks at the Doctor?”_

_“Santana.”_

_“Britt-Britt, you know I only watch this show because you love it so much.”_

_“Play with me, pleeeeease?”_

_“Well, first of all I’d like to point out that the TARDIS probably has a lot of excellent rooms for hooking up— **ouch!** Okay, okay. I dunno, I bet they just sit around and talk about their adventures and stuff. Maybe the Doctor takes Rose or Martha or whoever to boring places, like planets made of rubies or worlds where the stars actually are fireflies. You know, places that don’t exactly make for a raucous adventure.”_

_“So, you think they just do stuff that friends would do?”_

_“I guess, but…not really. I mean, they’re not exactly his friends, are they? They’re his companions. Companions are…well, they’re more than that. Once you save someone’s life or help them make a really tough decision, you can’t ever be just friends. You’ll always have something extra.”_

_“Kind of like us.”_

_“Yeah, you’re something extra alright.”_

_“I bet a planet made of rubies would be really pretty.”_

_“If I had a wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey spaceship, I’d take you there yesterday.”_

_“You’re so silly, Santana.”)_

/ 

Santana always thinks she has the upper hand. She thinks she’s the only one who knows stuff.

But she isn’t.

The thing that she’s terrified to admit is that everyone knows.

It’s just that not everyone cares.

And it’s not like people just have an inkling or an idea. No, they know everything. Love is like that, I think. Santana thinks you can run away, that you can jump from shadow to shadow playing hide and seek forever, but love will always find her.

I will always find her.

When we were little, Santana loved to play hide and seek. She would always wait until the last second before I opened my eyes, taking all of her time to find that perfect hiding spot. It was a dead giveaway. I knew not to look under the bed or behind a door because those were too easy. She was always contorted in a drawer, squished in a garbage can, wedged between branches on the tallest tree. It was kind of like she wanted to be lost, like she wanted to hide herself somewhere she couldn’t escape.

You know how sometimes you do one thing just so you won’t have to do something else? Like, that’s the only way I get my math homework done. Because if I do that, then I can take a really long time on it, and oops—then I’ve run out of time to work on physics. Darn it.

Santana was like that with hiding. If she couldn’t get out of the garbage can, then she wouldn’t be tempted to run for the door. It’s not like she didn’t want to take the easy way out; it’s that she didn’t even give herself the chance.

Sometimes I think that’s the saddest part about her.

/ 

_“How do you always know where I am, Britt-Britt?”_

_“I can hear you breathing.”_

_“No, you can’t; I’m very quiet.”_

_“Oh. Well, you’re my best friend. Aren’t I supposed to be able to find you?”_

_“Well, yeah, but the best part of the game is tricking people. You don’t fall for any tricks. You’re too smart.”_

_“I don’t think you can ever trick me, Santana.”_

_“Maybe one day I will. Hey, can we get ice cream or something? I don’t really want to play hide and seek anymore.”_

/ 

No matter what Santana tells or shows other people, I know she really cares about stuff. When we lost Nationals last year, sure she got mad and I kind of thought that maybe I was going to have to fix her with some hot lady lovin’ afterwards. But it wasn’t like that at all. Quinn and I took her into the hall to calm down and she just…stopped. It was like, when she was in there yelling at Rachel, she was this big balloon, swelling up with angry words and hands and she just kept getting bigger until I thought she was really going to explode. But then we got her outside and she just totally deflated. Like the way that balloon loses air when you let it go and it just swirls all over the place until it lands in a heap on the ground, sad and distorted because you’ve been pulling at it and also it’s sort of covered in spit.

Santana was really, really upset, and I remember being a little unnerved because it was a kind of upset I hadn’t seen from her before. I knew she hated to lose, but that time it seemed like more.

It wasn’t until later that night, when both of us were still awake in the hotel room listening to Rachel and Mercedes snore louder than a dozen trucks downshifting on the highway, that she let me know what she was feeling.

(“I’m really sad we didn’t win, Britt.”

“I know, honey.”

“It’s just…it’s not like when we take Nationals for Cheerios. Cheerios doesn’t really matter, you know? When I’m happy and smiling about how awesome it feels, it’s really because I know it feels awesome for you and Quinn. I like seeing you guys happy. But winning with Glee—well, it’s really the only time I ever want to win because it’ll feel awesome for _me_.”

“Santana…”

“Why are you all the way on the other side of the bed? I’m sleepy.”)

I guess sometimes even I still have things to learn about Santana.

* * *

 

That’s how I know that Sectionals this year is going to be really important for Santana. And it’s the worst kind of knowledge that I’ve ever had, because I know something else, too: the Troubletones are going to lose.

It’s not that we’re not good—we’re awesome. Mercedes and Santana alone could win if it was just down to singing. It’s just that…

One time, I read about this experiment some scientists did where they wanted to study how monkeys bonded with their moms. So they put the monkeys in two separate cages with fake mothers; one was made of wire and had food attached to it. The other didn’t have any food, but it was covered with a warm blanket. When the monkeys needed to eat, they ran to the wire mom. But when they were scared, they ran to the cloth mom. When they were lonely, they ran to the cloth mom. When they found something unfamiliar, they ran to the cloth mom.

Ms. Corcoran is really nice and she takes a lot more time to listen to us than Mr. Schue did. She treats Santana like the star that she is. She doesn’t spoil anyone and she only yells sometimes.

But Ms. Corcoran is the wire mom.

See, she keeps giving us all this music food and we eat it up like we’re starving. But when the food runs out, nothing’s left except for Mr. Schue and his warm blanket embrace. And eventually we’re going to get cold.

I can’t tell Santana any of this though, because she’s sitting next to me in the car, hands perched stiffly on the steering wheel and feet tapping on the mat. She’s really nervous, and Santana only gets really nervous when she cares about something a whole bunch.

“Santana.” I put a hand on her wrist. “Sectionals isn’t until tonight. You don’t have to worry so much yet.”

She swipes her fingers gently over mine. I don’t know which one of us she’s trying to calm, but it’s working.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I just really want it to be perfect.”

“It’ll be just like performing with New Directions, only this time we’ll be better.” I give her my widest smile, hoping that will cheer her up.

But she shakes her head instead. “No, this time is different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

I know that tone. It’s her “I love you, Brittany, but I don’t want to share right now because I’m afraid there’s still something about me you don’t like” tone. If she weren’t so sincere, I’d laugh at how silly it is. I like everything about Santana.

I could push her today, but I think she would take it even worse than normal. It’s okay; letting her lead one more time isn’t going to hurt.

“Okay, well,” I draw out, glancing at my phone, “it’s a little before seven. If we hurry, we can get to the auditorium before Rachel does. You know that always pisses her off. And, well, I guess a little extra practice couldn’t hurt either.”

Santana slowly stretches out a smile, almost giddy at the prospect of messing with Rachel’s morning routine. She doesn’t even have to say it anymore, but she yells “Race you!” anyway at the exact moment we both burst out of the car, grabbing our bags and running with wild abandon toward the school.

(Here’s another thing I know about Santana: every time we race, she tries really hard. She hates losing, even if it is to me. These are just silly little challenges, but every time they pop up she runs as fast as she can.

I always run faster.

I can’t help it; she looks so cute at the end when she’s sweaty and pouting).

I look over my shoulder as we run—she is reaching her hand out. In these hallways that will never be private, which Santana knows more than anyone, she wants to run together. I really want to slow down and grab her, but the auditorium is three strides in front of me and I haven’t lost a race yet.

The door bangs, practically bending its hinges as I fling it open, Santana barely two seconds behind me.

“I let you—fucking _ow_ , I totally let you win this time,” she huffs, bent over with her hands resting on her knees.

“You say that every time,” I gasp back.

“Well, maybe I mean it every time.”

I nudge her shoulder playfully. “Yeah, right. Come on; the stage awaits.”

Something always happens to me when I walk up to a stage. I treat it like a library. You have to be quiet because stages are places that don’t work if you’re obnoxious. The magic is only there when you respect it.

The light switch is behind the curtains, but I know these aisles almost as well as I know my house. I reach back in the dark, finding Santana’s hand exactly where I knew it would be.

The stage is a different place when only a few people are on it. Without theater kids or glee clubs, it’s like a second home.  I always know what to do when I’m on stage. It’s like when I’m dancing or singing up here, even if I mess up I’m not messing up. I think the stage doesn’t let anyone make mistakes. It’s a place where you have to be honest, even if you don’t want to.

With a quiet hand, Santana flicks the lights on and I stop for a second, appreciating the familiarity. Santana sits next to me, tugging my fingers in a gentle plea to join her. Her smile tells me that she knows how much I love being here.

I smooth my skirt and take a seat next to her. “Don’t you want to sing or something?”

She smiles and takes my hand. “No. I like the quiet.”

“Okay.”

I turn my head to the rows of seats. I always liked the fact that you can’t see them when you’re performing. I find comfort in that, knowing that even if I tripped or something, I wouldn’t ever see someone frown.

When Santana performs, I know that she’s aware of every audience member. They scare her to death. She thinks they’re frowning at her every move. I can see it on her face even now, and no one else is actually here.

I give her hand an extra confident squeeze. “San, you really need to just calm down. It’s going to be okay.”

She nods sadly. “Do you ever think about what’s going to happen after we graduate? Like, where everyone’s going to go and stuff?”

I shrug. “Not really. I don’t need to know where everyone else is going to go.”

“You don’t think about how you’ll miss everyone?”

“I don’t like to think about sad things that haven’t happened yet. If I’m going to miss someone, I’ll feel it when it happens.” Santana starts picking at a stray thread on her bag, and I know she’s got a million thoughts crashing in her head that she doesn’t want to say. If I wait long enough, she’ll say them anyway. “For what it’s worth, I know that I don’t have to worry about missing you. That’s enough for me.”

She smiles and rests her head on my shoulder. Her hair smells delicious, and no matter how many times I steal her shampoo, it never smells as good when I use it.

“I miss being in Glee Club,” she murmurs. I wait a little longer. “But I really want to win with the Troubletones tonight. I’m still just so mad at Mr. Schue and Finn. I’m mad that they think they did the right thing, that they _always_ think they’re doing the right thing. I just…I want to win for me; I want to show them that I can do it on my own and I can do it better. But it’s not the same.”

“You were better than them even when we were in Glee Club.”

She laughs lightly. “Thanks, Britt.” I pretend not to notice her sniffle. “Fuck, I even miss Rachel,” she says, letting out a heavy sigh. “Sugar might be just as crazy, but at least Rachel can sing.”

I smile and poke her leg. “I’m gonna tell Rachel you said that.”

Santana smiles back. “No, you aren’t.”

“No, I’m not. But I _am_ going to drag you to first period with me. Maybe history will distract you from all the butterflies.”

I tug her up with me, making sure to be extra bouncy and cheerful as we make our way out. It always seems to rub off on her. I can hear people milling around outside the doors; the school woke up while we were in our little bubble.

“Hey.” I stop Santana before she leaves. “It’s okay to miss things, even Mr. Schue and Finn.”

“I don’t miss _them_ ,” Santana defends quickly.

“Okay. Well, even if you did, it would be okay. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods. Her face looks lighter. She extends her hand and pushes on the door. “You coming?”

I grin and twine our fingers. “Always.”

/ 

“You guys ready for tonight?” Quinn slides into her seat next to us. The room is slowly filling up. Maybe the other students are ready to learn about World War II, but the three of us have better things to talk about. Sometimes I think the most important parts about school are the ones you don’t need a classroom for.

“Shouldn’t you be ignoring us?” Santana scowls, not looking up from her phone. “Or is this an invitation to a Battle of the Glee Clubs? Are we having a rumble by the dumpsters later?”

Quinn smiles. She never was one to take Santana’s insults seriously. “No, I just thought I’d see how you were doing. And, you know, wish you good luck.”

“Please, we’ve got this thing in the bag.”

Quinn smirks and opens her bag a little too casually. “Well, it might interest you to know that yesterday, Rachel and Finn spent most of their time in Kentucky, recruiting a certain blond-haired boy wonder.”

I lean forward in excitement. “Sam’s back?” Quinn nods smugly.

Santana scoffs. “Nerdy McAbs-a-lot? Like he’s any competition. He may have screaming tweens creaming their pants with his Bieber voice and doofy boy-band smile, but he ain’t gots nothin’ on me and Mercedes. Besides, I bet he’ll consume everyone within a ten mile radius the minute he opens his mouth. You’re doomed.”

(I hear her witty remarks, but something in her eyes has softened. Like I told her once—Santana can’t fool me).

“Do you think he can open jars with his mouth?” Quinn furrows her brows at me; Santana looks amused, like she always does. “What? I’m always sad that I can’t open more things with my mouth. I’ve always wanted to. I bet Sam can.”

Santana’s eyes twinkle and she snaps her fingers abruptly. “Britt, do you have my notebook?”

“Which one?”

“The little red one. I think I left it in your bag from last time.” She blushes when she sees my smile. “Shut up; it’s not like that.”

I rummage in my bag, finding her notebook at the very bottom. “Oh, it _so_ is,” I tease as I hand it to her.

“What?” Quinn blurts, completely confused.

I turn to her and grin. “Santana totally missed Sam.”

“I did not! Now shush, I have to concentrate.”

It’s all I can do not to giggle when Quinn catches my eye, her grin mirroring mine.

/ 

The day ends far too slowly for my liking, and far too quickly for Santana’s. She’s been working all day in her notebook, stealing class time and breaks when she could. I know what that notebook is. It’s her insult diary, but the nice one. See, when Santana is really mean, she says things right as she thinks them. I can always tell when that happens because they’re not as polished as her nice insults and sometimes they go on just a little bit too long. I keep telling her that if she doesn’t make it as a realtor (because Santana can sell you anything with only a smile and a well-tailored skirt), she should be a stand-up comedian. But she always tells me no because she doesn’t want to insult people for a living. I like it when she says that. It makes me think that when high school is over, maybe Santana will finally get to be a person instead of an idea.

But until then, she keeps an insult journal where she writes all the funny things she notices about people. It’s sad that everyone takes them the wrong way. It’s like, when Santana takes time to write about you, that means she pays attention to you. It’s sort of a compliment if you get where she’s coming from, but no one really seems to.

The bell rings at the end of our last period and Santana stalls, packing up her bag much more slowly than she normally would. We _should_ be getting to Troubletones rehearsal, but Santana is debating dropping by the choir room. I can see it on her face, in the way her jaw clenches and fingers flick against each other.

“Hey, do you mind if we go say hi to Sam before rehearsal? Just for a little while.”

She smiles at me, clearly relieved. “Yeah, I guess we can spare a few minutes.”

Santana grabs my hand and leads me out of the classroom. I hold her hand loosely like I always do, just in case she gets scared again, but she pulls me tighter. I guess I can’t say no to that.

I hear the room before we even turn the corner into the right hallway. They’re singing “Red Solo Cup,” and it makes me so happy because I love songs about cups, and all I want to do is run in and sing with the friends who were there first. But Santana stops outside the door.

“I love this song, San!” I whine.

“I know, Britt. But we can’t. Just wait until they’re done, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” I agree, frowning.

She wasn’t kidding, either—the minute the song ends, Santana marches into the choir room like it’s a place she still visits every day. The whole Glee Club is on red alert, and I smile to myself. Santana is about to surprise the hell out of them.

“I just heard the news that Trouty Mouth is back in town,” she announces. “I've been keeping a notebook just in case this day ever came. Welcome back, Lisa Rinna. I’ve missed you so much since your family packed their bags, loaded them in your mouth and skipped town. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to enjoy a crisp pickle, but couldn’t find anyone to suck the lid off the jar. I assume you’ve been working as a baby polisher, where young mothers place their infants’ heads in your mouth to get back that newborn shine. So glad you’re back—I haven’t seen a smile that big since the Abominable Snowman got his teeth pulled by that little gay elf dentist. Love, Santana.”

Mike can barely keep it together; for once, Mr. Schue has nothing to say; and Santana is letting Sam scoop her up into a big hug. She’s even smiling.

As I watch from the hall (because this is Santana’s moment), I think that maybe…maybe this is the night that things finally go her way.

/ 

But the night fills up with anxiety after that. We haven’t left school because Cheerios practice was right after rehearsal, and then we had about half an hour before Ms. Corcoran wanted us to regroup again anyway. I know that all Santana wants is a shower or a nap—something she can do in her own room to calm herself down. But she can’t have those things, so I keep a hand on her back just in case she wants to lean against it.

All too soon, it’s our turn on stage. Santana catches me before we walk out, mumbling in my ear, her voice so low it’s practically a purr.

“Hey.” I can feel her words vibrating against my ear. “You’re a star too, you know.”

I give her a quick peck on the cheek as thanks.

I think what I love most about Santana is that she’s always there to remind me what I need when I’m too wrapped up in my someone elses. And the only thing I ever really need are her words.

* * *

 

(Piano. Lights. Santana.

There isn’t anyone out there; you know that. There is a hush in your head, a moment before you switch on the dancing. It is your moment, your pause button before adrenaline kicks in. You live for this moment.

And then it is gone.

Watch your hands. Move with purpose. You know these steps—show them. Feel the pulse on the down beat, the on beat; it’s 4/4, ladies, step it up. Watch your hands; your hands sell everything. Feel the song, live it. Get what it’s about. They don’t get it; they’re too focused on singing the words to actually understand them. They feel the anger, sing the anger, the scorn, the revenge. But it’s freedom. It’s freedom and relief and confidence and liberation. Freedom is not angry. Freedom is impassioned. You get it. Santana gets it, too.

Find Santana. She is singing passion at you, firing energy through your palms. Lead. Glide. You are close, perfectly close, terrifyingly, thrillingly close. Let her push back, let her take the lead, let her dip you—then take it all away. Take it all away now, right now, let her really miss it. Push harder, glide faster, dip deeper. This is your domain. This is what you do, who you are. Make sure everyone knows.

Keep the momentum going. You cannot falter, you cannot surrender. You survive. You adapt. You make better. Twirl when you have to. Pop when you want to. Breathe when you can.

The ending is like the beginning, full of suspense, anticipation. You can’t wait for the end because that’s when everyone knows it really was perfect. That’s when the room for error closes its door; when the sliver of doubt becomes invisible. That’s when you win.

Keep focus. Focus is what makes you great, and tonight you must be great. You feel the greatness in your fingers, in your stomps, in your words. Especially when you glance over and see that they’re Santana’s words, too. That’s why you like singing—because sometimes, for a few minutes, you get to have the same words as Santana, and that’s all you ever need.

Dancing is your soul, but singing is your heart and tonight you need to spill it. Spill it all for Santana so she knows it’s okay to spill hers, too.

You can hear them, the audience. You can’t see them, but you hear their cheers, their screams. They’re spilling too, and it’s seeping through the floor, up the stairs, onto the stage. Absorb it. Replenish yourself. Let it fuel you. This is what you live for. This is what you do; this is what makes you. This is who you are.

It’s coming. Here’s the end. Grab it. Punch it. Mercedes and Santana, they sing with the crowd, a perfect symphony of heart and appreciation. Wish that she recognizes it, that she touches it because all you’ve ever wanted to do was show Santana how much she was appreciated. How much she always is appreciated.

Punch. Punch again. Build the ending. It’s tense, notes climbing higher, feet walking with more sense, more drive, hips swaying with more intent. They’re going up, Mercedes and Santana; the climax, it’s running farther away and they’re speeding up to catch it—going up, that perfect peak; where is it? Go up, ride with them, smile, love it, love it up there—

And then it’s London bridges. Everyone’s down (not the crowd; the crowd is up, gloriously up, right where you were just a moment ago). You added this move at the last minute because you knew you’d need it.

The hush is back and everything else is gone. This is your moment again, but in reverse. This is your off switch, the adrenaline leaving you, when your pause button fills itself in and becomes a stop.

And then it is gone, and you are left with relief.

You knew it was coming).

/ 

I did know it was coming, ever since this morning, but that doesn’t mean I was happy when it finally got here. I’m just happy that it’s over, that there isn’t anything to worry about anymore. You know how sometimes you just get this feeling that whatever is going to happen is not going to go your way. You’re taking a test and even before you read the first question, you know you’re going to totally fail. It’s the worst test ever, and you’re super sad for about a week because you really wanted to do well. But then the teacher hands it back and you get the bad grade you were expecting. And yeah, it sucks. But you knew it was going to happen, so it’s sort of like you won, except it’s really not. But at least you knew.

That’s what tonight is.

The moments after they announce the winner, those are the moments I don’t want to have. Those are the moments I don’t want Santana to have. But they’re here, and there’s no point in denying them. I can only find Santana’s hand, telling her it’s okay with a squeeze, and hope she hears me.

Mercedes catches my eye and flicks her head, motioning for me to follow her backstage. When I don’t immediately move, she grabs my hand and pulls it, and since Santana is attached to my other one, I guess she’s coming along, too.

“What do you want, Wheezy?” Santana is back in bitch-mode, the mask she puts on when she’s hurt.

“Emergency Glee kids meeting.”

“We’re part of the Troubletones,” Santana sneers.

“No, Santana. We’re Glee kids. Listen,” she says, cutting off Santana’s sarcastic retort (this is mean Santana—talk first, regret later), “this isn’t right. I know you know that. It sucks that we lost, but we need to fix this.”

“Fix what? I’m not going back to New Directions.”

Mercedes shakes her head quickly. “No, neither am I. That’s not what I mean. I can’t go back there, back to singing only when Rachel needs a diva note. But they’re our friends, and you know they won’t gloat if we at least make up with them. Right now, they’re in there celebrating, and most of them probably think we’re going to take this opportunity to be rude to them. But they beat us, fair and square, and we need to take the chance while we’ve got it to prove them wrong.”

Santana sets her jaw and plants her hands on her hips. It isn’t going to be an easy night. “I’m not going to apologize to Finn fucking Hudson when I didn’t do anything wrong. If you want to grovel, that’s your deal. Go right ahead.”

Mercedes sighs. “That’s not what I’m saying, Sant—”

But Santana is already gone, storming off at speeds even Rachel Berry would kill for.

I turn to Mercedes with an apologetic shrug. “I get what you’re saying.” Mercedes nods gratefully. “But you know, going back wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, either.”

Her nostrils flare and she drops her head. I get it. She’s embarrassed. Her pride is hurting just as much as Santana’s.

I pat her shoulder. “Okay, well, I’ll go talk to her anyway. See you later.”

/ 

Santana hadn’t gone far; she was just sitting across the hall from Ms. Corcoran’s classroom. I could hear the rest of the Troubletones wondering where we were. Ms. Corcoran was avoiding their questions. Sometimes I think she knows a lot more about teenage girls than any other teacher. I like her a lot.

I sit down next to Santana. Our shoulders are touching. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she whispers.

“You sounded really great tonight.”

“Thanks.” Her voice is garbled, like she took a big spoonful of some honey to soothe her throat and then tried to talk but the words wouldn’t come out right.

“Hey.” I take her hand. “If you want, we can ditch this really depressing meeting and go have a horror movie marathon. I know you love mocking them. I’ll even get really big tubs of ice cream.”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, I don’t want to do that.”

“Okay. Well, can I do anything to help?”

“Just…you’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Sweetie, why in the _world_ would I be mad at you?”

She swallows a few times before answering. “I don’t know. I’m not good enough and we didn’t win tonight, and I know you didn’t want to leave New Directions in the first place but I really wanted senior year to be about you and me and I just, I feel like…” The rest of her words trail off, sinking into the honey like quicksand.

I pat the back of her hand encouragingly. “I didn’t catch that last bit, baby.”

She looks up at me (finally), and her eyes are wrecked. “I feel like I’ve disappointed you.”

My insides melt. “Oh, Santana, you haven’t—”

“No, listen, Brittany. I was the one who made you leave New Directions when I knew you loved it. I just wanted you with me because Mr. Schuester treats you like a child and you deserve more than that. And I wanted some solos, sure, but…you’re so much more than a dancer, and I just wanted someone else to see that. And I thought the Troubletones would be perfect, but we didn’t win. It didn’t work, and you could have spent this whole time with New Directions winning and being happy instead of tagging along with me because I’ve got an axe to grind with Rachel Berry.”

She stops talking, gasping a little to catch her breath. Santana rambles when she’s nervous.

“Are you done?” She nods her head sadly. “Okay, then it’s your turn to listen to me, and you need to look at me while I talk because this is super important.” She drags her eyes hesitantly up to mine. I smile when we finally look at each other. I will always smile when we look at each other. “There we go. Here’s the important part, Santana Lopez: you didn’t make me do anything. I joined the Troubletones because I wanted to _and_ because you would be there. And I loved being in a group with you and Mercedes and Sugar, and I have you to thank because now I know that Ms. Corcoran is really nice and rational, and it’s a bummer that Rachel didn’t turn out exactly like her. And yeah, we lost tonight. But I’m not sad. I’m happy because I look awesome and my seriously hot girlfriend is sitting next to me sharing things, and that’s all I’ve ever really needed. I am so the opposite of mad at you, Santana. I am ridiculously proud of you. You’re amazing.”

I watch her face deflate like it did after Nationals, only this time it’s happier. This time she’s smiling and squeezing my hand. Maybe this is just what she does after big competitions, although she never did with the Cheerios. I think Santana has a lot more feelings about everything than people might believe. If she let them out more often, she’d probably be a really happy person.

Judging by how calm her face already looks, maybe she’s getting there.

“Britt…” She plays with the hem of my dress. The fabric dances across my leg and it makes me giggle. “I love you,” she whispers sincerely. “So much.”

I swipe away a few tears from her cheek with the pad of my thumb. “I love you too, Santana.”

She stands up, pulling me with her and groaning as she stretches out her legs. I swing our hands together as I wait for her to tidy herself up.

“Do you wanna bail? I won’t mind if you do.”

She cocks her head for a moment, thinking. “I guess a little team bonding won’t suck the life out of me. Just gimme a second to wash my face.”

I’m already pulling her to the door. “Nope, everyone else is already crying anyway. You don’t get to stall anymore.”

She rolls her eyes as I pull her into the classroom, but I’m right anyway. Everyone is either in the middle of crying or just about to start.

“There you girls are,” Ms. Corcoran says warmly. Her eyes are puffy but dry. She’s mostly composed.

“Yeah, sorry. We got a bit, um…sorry.” I never was good at coming up with excuses really quickly. Usually Santana saves me, but she’s a bit preoccupied this time. It’s okay; I don’t think Ms. Corcoran was really listening, anyway.

“Well, now that everyone’s here, I just wanted to say a few things. It won’t take long, I promise; I know you all want to get home quickly. First of all, thank you so much for being part of this group. I know it started off a little rocky”—there are chuckles at Ms. Corcoran’s words; rocky is an understatement—“but I think this group of ours really turned into something special. And all of you had a part in it.” She looks at Santana a little longer than anyone else, like she’s telling her that she matters, that she made a difference and made us better.

Ms. Corcoran is my new favorite teacher.

“Now, for some of you, there’s always next year. But for my seniors…I wish things had gone our way. I know how important senior year is. I know that everyone wants it to be perfect. I don’t want you guys to graduate thinking that this was just a revenge group. So if you need to do something to make your senior year perfect…it’s okay.” Her eyes flit from Mercedes to Santana to me. I try not to look too eager. I really do love the Troubletones.

I tune out the rest of Ms. Corcoran’s speech. I know that losing is sad, but I actually feel pretty happy tonight. I could fall asleep right now, right here in this stiff chair because everything seems to be balancing out again. Santana has been playing with my fingers this whole time, weaving twisted, tangled paths around my nails and knuckles. I don’t even think she realizes she’s doing it. She presses down on my skin gently, touching me with the weight of a feather. She always comes back to my pinky, curling hers around it, her skin soft and warm and so, so familiar. I think, when I find the right moment, I’m going to have a very important conversation with my dad.

“Hey, B." I look up to see the rest of the girls filing out of the room. Santana is smiling at me. “You ready to go?”

I shake my head a little to clear out the far-away-thoughts that seem to have settled. “Yeah.”

Santana grabs my hand and we leave, waving to Ms. Corcoran and some of the other girls. We’ll see most of them in Cheerios later, so it doesn’t really matter. We all disperse in the parking lot, scattering to cars that seem further away from the building than they did when we first parked them.

The night air is cool, especially since I forgot to put on my jacket, but Santana’s hand in mine is all I need to tide me over until we’re finally buckled in. She hands me the keys silently, and that’s how I know she’s still getting over the loss. Santana really likes to drive.

“Can we still do that horror marathon?”

I smile at her, flicking my turn signal and pretending like I wasn’t already planning on making a pit stop the grocery store. “Yeah, I think we can do that. You want chocolate peanut butter?”

“Ooh, yum! I was gonna say mint chocolate chip, but yours sounds way better.”

“Knew it.”

“And I think we still have _The Exorcist_ on Netflix.”

I laugh and shoot her an almost-exasperated look. “San, you’ve seen that, like, twelve billion times.”

“What?” She shrugs unapologetically. “Never stops being funny.”

* * *

 

If I could start every day with a faceful of black hair that smells like Santana and sleep, I don’t think I’d ever be scared of anything again. She always ends up impossibly close to me in the mornings, her head tucked under my chin and hair taking over my cheeks. It’s always been like this, even when things like Artie and Puck and Sam got in the way. I end up with her hair in my mouth more often than not, but I’ve learned not to swallow it. That’s what you do for people you love, right? You adapt.

That’s how I know Santana loves me. She adapted for me. She didn’t change; she just found less scary ways to do the same things she’s always done. I can’t really ask her to do much more than that, even if I do still wish she’d be a little nicer to people or stop smoking cigars. They make her kisses taste icky.

Her head tickles my chin as she slowly wakes up, one minute before the alarm goes off (like always).

“G’morning, sleepy,” I smile as I tuck her hair behind her ears.

“Morn’, Brit,” she mumbles. Her breath is hot on my shoulder. “Time’s it?”

“6:2—nope, 6:30.” I click off the alarm. “I let you sleep in; I think we can skip Cheerios morning practice at least once. Coach won’t miss us.”

Santana vibrates a laugh into my skin. “Yeah, she’ll probably take it out on a tiny freshman. Sucker.”

“Oh, yeah.” I frown. “Shoot.”

“S’okay, we’ll apologize later. How much time before we have to get ready?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Yay,” she squeals. She’s still groggy, so it’s more of a sloppy exhale than anything else. “Cuddle with me?”

Well, I wasn’t going to say no in the first place, but her hair is back in my face and she has my torso in a death grip. I don’t really think I have much of a choice. I throw the covers back over us and burrow deeper into her.

“Okay.”

/ 

Santana’s smile straightens out the longer we stay at school. It’s still a sad place. I sort of wish Sectionals had been held at some other school. Then at least we wouldn’t have lost at home.

Quinn tries to corner us in history again. I’d love to talk to her, but Santana bristles. She’s still embarrassed, I think.

By the time we get to Physics, Santana has been moping pretty much constantly. I know making out always cheers her up, but the last time I tried that, Mr. Bennett had to write us up. We broke a beaker and then Santana yelled at him. It wasn’t funny until later.

Our last class is Spanish and I know Santana really doesn’t want to go because Mr. Schue still teaches that since he’s, like, the only Spanish teacher in the school or something. So instead, I steer her towards Mercedes’s locker and lead the both of them to a bathroom that nobody ever uses. At the same time I’m doing both of these things, I text Quinn to come meet us—without either Santana or Mercedes noticing.

I wish people would notice all these awesome things I do, because come on—I am seriously impressive.

“What gives, Britt?”

Santana and Mercedes are both looking at me like I’m crazy. “What? I forgot how to put eyeliner on again.” Mercedes smiles. Santana’s eyes tell me she doesn’t believe me. “Okay, so I didn’t forget. I just don’t want to be in class right now. I’m still kind of bummed.”

Santana grins and pulls out her makeup bag. “Well, you could use a freshening up anyway.” She concentrates on my face as she touches up my makeup. It’s absurd that I’m so turned on just by how she looks at me. “I still can’t believe we lost.”

“We were better,” Mercedes agrees.

It’s absurd, right?

“I dunno, I think it could have gone either way,” I chime in, eager to distract myself from Santana’s lips. (They’ve parted as she attends to my eyebrows—I don’t think she can use mascara with her mouth closed. It makes for a lovely view).

“It was that damn Trouty Mouth. Even I felt a little something in my lady loins when he did that magic sex dance.”

Quinn, thankfully, opens the door in a fit of perfect timing and saves me from further squirming. “Alright, ladies. Girl talk.”

Santana is immediately on the defensive. “Oh, no. Uh uh. Don’t you dare try and give us a pep talk.”

“Or ask us to come back to New Directions,” Mercedes adds.  “Not interested.”

“Wait, is it even possible? Do you think they would really take us back?” I butt in eagerly, mostly for Santana’s benefit than anything else.

(This is all an act, you see. I know they will take us back. I told Quinn we’d be back by the end of the day. Santana is sad we lost, but mostly she’s sad _she_ lost—she lost that friendship, that bond you have when you’re teammates with someone even though you might not like them as a person. There was this one freshman girl last year—really spotty on the Cheerios. Sometimes she was great, and sometimes she was just completely awful. Santana yelled at her all the time—before we left, I mean. She was terrible to the girl. And then one day we saw her in the parking lot getting in a fight with her boyfriend. He was really angry, and I think he would have hit her if Santana hadn’t stepped in and cursed him out for at least five minutes. I don’t even think she stopped to take a breath. The next day at school, it was like nothing happened, except for this time the girl smiled every time Santana yelled at her. She got better, too.

So even though Santana might not get along with everyone in New Directions, they’re her teammates, and that means a lot. And I know she wants them back).

“Of course they would take us back,” Mercedes answers. “But I’m telling you, I’m not going.”

“Do you know what growing up is about? Losing things. In six months, we’ll all be gone—scattered.”

Quinn is smart. She isn’t best friends with Santana like I’m best friends with Santana, but they get things about each other that I never will. It’s like, Santana has her happy best friend—me—and her sad best friend—Quinn. And when she and Quinn fell apart, Santana kind of had to overcompensate on the sadness. And maybe this is the chance to even it out again, or maybe Santana will realize that Quinn can be her happy friend, too. Because I think Quinn is already starting to realize that.

“We'll keep in touch,” Mercedes retorts.

“Yeah, but it won't be the same. When we see each other, it'll be a special occasion. It'll be different. I don't want to grow up yet. I'm not ready to lose you girls.”

(When I say that Quinn is Santana’s sad best friend, I don’t mean that she’s depressing. I mean that she and Santana understand how each other gets sad. They get sad in this way that I can’t really figure out. Like, I get sad if someone dies or when Artie called me stupid and then we broke up. But Santana and Quinn get sad about things that are way in the future that might not even happen. They get so sad about those things that they forget to be happy about what happens every day. That’s why I know Santana will eventually go back to New Directions. Because she was just telling me yesterday that she doesn’t want to get that kind of sad anymore).

“What are we supposed to do? Come back to Glee Club and sing background for Blaine and Berry until we graduate?” Mercedes scoffs. “I'm not doing that again. We know what it feels like to be out front now.”

“What if Mr. Schue agreed to let the Trouble Tones sing at least one number per competition?”

Quinn already has a plan for that. I knew she would.

“Well, even if Mr. Schue did agree to that, Rachel never would.” Santana’s objections are weak. I know it. She knows it.

“What if I told you that they both already did?” Quinn hasn’t let me down one bit, and I can barely keep my smile in check as she keeps talking. I can tell I have to, though, because her words are serious. Like, sad-Santana serious. “Look, I know I went a little crazy. But I'm here now. I'm 17—I have the rest of my life in front of me. I love Glee Club. I love you girls. And when we're 27, or 87, I want us to be able to look back on these next couple months and talk about how it was the best times of our lives. Can't do that if we're not all together. We're doing a big number in the auditorium to celebrate our victory and to prepare for Regionals. We could use a couple more girl voices. Let me know if you hear about anybody who might want to join.”

Santana reaches out her hand while Quinn is talking and I immediately cover it with mine. She won’t ever have to look for me because I plan on staying by her side for a very long time. But if she ever went looking for me, all she’d have to do would be to reach out her hand. Because I will always find her hand with mine.

The door flaps as Quinn leaves. We have about ten minutes before the bell rings at the end of the day. The bathroom is quiet, but I can feel Mercedes and Santana thinking next to me.

“We can’t go back,” Mercedes feebly protests.

“Yeah,” Santana parrots. “I mean, we don’t even know what song they’re performing.”

“Right.”

“They’re, um—well, they’re singing ‘We Are Young’,” I offer, pulling my phone out of my bag. “Quinn just texted.”

Santana eyes me suspiciously. “Riiiight, well…I mean, we can’t just leave Sugar. She’s the one who started the Troubletones in the first place.”

“Okay, so let’s go get her.” Mercedes and Santana are still reluctant. “Oh come on, you guys! Both of you told me yesterday that you missed Glee Club. And, you know, there was all that stuff Ms. Corcoran said about senior year being perfect. She’d understand, too. ‘Cause, like, what’s more perfect than being around people who want exactly the same thing you do?”

“Everyone in New Directions wants the same thing I do?” Mercedes huffs. “Yeah, right. And what’s that?”

I shrug. “To have fun. To sound great. To be special. I mean, it’s not just one person winning Sectionals or Regionals. It’s all of us, and I think that’s pretty cool.”

The bell rings as Santana plays with her ponytail. Mercedes watches me like I might pounce on her at any minute. I am screaming silent pleas in my mind for this plan to work.

“I do love that song,” Santana reluctantly admits.

“If we get Sugar now, we’ll probably make it in time for the second chorus,” Mercedes joins in.

“Yay!” I clap my hands and make to run out the door, but Santana grabs my hand before I can make it.

“Hold on, you,” she warns. “Mercedes, grab Sugar and meet us outside the auditorium, would you? Don’t go in though.” Mercedes nods and leaves.

“San, why can’t we go now?”

Instead of answering, she pulls me in for a kiss, using the straps of my backpack to tug me in even closer. She smiles against my lips; her tongue is warm and happy. These are my favorite kinds of Santana-kisses, the ones that surprise me and make me fall in love all over again.

“You, Ms. Pierce, are one sneaky lady,” she says as she pulls away. “Don’t think I don’t know what you were doing.”

I grin bashfully. “Well, it worked, didn’t it? You fell for that one sink, line, and hooker.”

Santana laughs into my mouth. “That’s _hook, line, and sinker_ , B.”

“Oh.” I play it over again in my head. “Well, that’s good, because the first way didn’t really make any sense.” I give her a quick peck on the lips. “Can we go sing now?”

She takes my hand and opens the door. “I’d love to.”

/ 

(Friends. Music. Santana.

She is right next to you, where she has been for so long, where you want her to always stay. They’ve started without you, the Glee Club, but you don’t mind. You were always the one to make their dancing better. You’ll pick up.

Sugar sings. Mercedes smiles. Santana…you can’t really tell what she’s doing. You’re bouncing. You’re ecstatic. This is so much better than winning Sectionals ever would have been.

You know you guys look like dogs with their tails between their legs. New Directions looks happy, unstoppable—incomplete. The three missing links, now four, they’re on the sidelines singing, smiling…something…bouncing. You want to join them. Reach out your hand, hope someone reaches back.

It’s Blaine. Of course it’s Blaine. He’s so cheesy.

The tape is finally broken, barrier crossed, wall obliterated. Quinn grabs Mercedes, Sugar hops on with Artie, and you twirl into Rory’s arms. You’re still convinced he speaks another language. He’s slurring more than singing.

You’re all jamming, no choreography, no one cares. This is like what Finn said—you’re at your best when it’s choppy. You think back to that first Sectionals, when no one relied on Mr. Schue or let Rachel plan everything. It was a team effort. It was everyone coming together to make something great, something that no one would forget, and not only because you still have the trophy as a constant reminder. You won’t forget it because that was the first time you saw the real Santana come out around other people.

Find Santana. She is still by herself. That little piece of pride, that tiny bit that put off talking to her parents; the bit that lashed out at Finn; the bit that let herself be manipulated by Sue—it’s pricking, bleeding, opening, spilling. If you go back to get her, it’ll close back up again. You want it to stay open so that it can mix with everything else and then maybe she won’t feel the need to protect it so much. Because when it’s so jumbled with her love and courage and happiness, she can only protect it by protecting all of that other stuff, too.

Her eyes are reaching out. Her eyes are reaching out so much. You want to reach back. You will always reach back.

It’s just that, this time, Rachel reaches back first.

Now you can see exactly what Santana is doing. She is smiling—singing and smiling, smiling and singing. You sort of mess up the words because you’re so happy but you don’t care because this is what Glee Club is all about. Like how you catch Quinn’s eye and she isn’t grinning just because you both finally got Santana to come back. She’s grinning because she’s happy to see you. And so is Sam.

And Rory.

And Artie.

And Tina.

And Rachel and Finn and Kurt and Blaine and Mike and then Mr. Schue comes in and his mouth is open and he always looks kind of stupid when he laughs like that, but it’s a good kind of stupid like that uncle you have who gets really excited about really small things and sometimes your mom says you remind her of him.

This is the kind of performance you love. Yeah, it’s really awesome to do a really complicated dance and show off; it’s great to step left, slide right, spin, clap, spin, pop. But this isn’t about being the best at dancing. You don’t need to be on a stage to be that. This isn’t even about being the best at singing, because anytime Santana is next to you, you’re always second-best.

This is just about laughter and friends and how beautiful everyone looks with a smile. You’ve spent a lot of your time laughing and smiling and making friends, so for you, this is just about being. This is what you do. This is who you are.

And it’s what you’ve been waiting for this whole time.

And you knew it was coming).

/ 

Santana stays for the group hug after, but Rachel is giving her the serious look, the one she gets right before she starts to plan another Streisand number. That look always means feelings, so Santana runs away pretty quickly.

I give Quinn a thumbs up as Santana and I leave, already promising to come back for the next meeting. With the way things are going tonight, I think Santana will be the one dragging me there.

Maybe.

We hold hands as we walk out to her car, talking about anything but Glee Club. See, that’s the thing with singing. Sometimes you can’t talk about it after you sing because without the music you wouldn’t know the right thing to say. So instead we laugh at Mr. Schue’s hair, lightly make fun of Rory’s accent. Things we would do on any day if we had just left rehearsal.

Santana drives this time, which is good because I’m suddenly really sleepy, and all I want to do is nap on the way home.

“Yours or mine tonight, Britt?”

“Yours,” I mumble into the doorframe. “Your house always smells better.”

Santana laughs. “That’s because I don’t have two younger siblings.” She brushes something off of my arm. “Oh, you have a loose thread on your uniform. Let me get it.” She yanks gently and I feel it pop off.

“Here, give it to me and I’ll toss it out the window.”

“No, um—this is going to sound totally weird, but can I keep it?”

I peek my eye open to look at her; a thin, red line is dangling between her fingers. Her eyes are positively radiating with worry.

“Uh, sure?” I answer. “Why?”

She clears her throat and tries to hide a smile. “Oh, um, no reason. Just go to sleep, baby.”

“Okay.” I close my eyes and hide a smile of my own.

I know exactly why.


End file.
